'Firebrand' Trevison

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE CHAOS OF CREATION

  The West saw many "boom" towns. They followed in the wake of "goldstrikes;" they grew, mushroom-like, overnight--garish husks of squalor,palpitating, hardy, a-tingle with extravagant hopes. A few, it is true,lived to become substantial cities buzzing with the American spirit,panting, fighting for progress with an energy that shamed the Old World,lethargic in its smug and self-sufficient superiority. But many towns diedin their gangling youth, tragic monuments to hopes; but monuments also toeffort, and to the pioneer courage and the dreams of an empire-buildingpeople.

  Manti was destined to live. It was a boom town with material reasons forsubstantial growth. Behind it were the resources of a railroad companywhich would anticipate the development of a section of country bigger thana dozen Old-world states, and men with brains keen enough to realize thecommercial possibilities it held. It had Corrigan for an advanceagent--big, confident, magnetic, energetic, suave, smooth.

  Manti had awaited his coming; he was the magic force, the fulfillment ofthe rumored promise. He had stayed away for three weeks, following hisdeparture on the special car after bringing Judge Lindman, and when hestepped off the car again at the end of that time Manti was "humming," ashe had predicted. During the three weeks of his absence, the switch atManti had never been unoccupied. Trains had been coming in regularlybearing merchandise, men, tools, machines, supplies. Engineers hadarrived; the basin near Manti, choked by a narrow gorge at its westerlyend (where the dam was to be built) was dotted with tents, wagons, diggingimplements, a miscellany of material whose hauling had worn a rutted trailover the plains and on the slope of the basin, continually active withwagon-train and pack horse, and articulate with sweating, cursingdrivers.

  "She's a pippin!" gleefully confided a sleek-looking individual who mighthave been mistaken for a western "parson" had it not been for a certainsophisticated cynicism that was prominent about him, and which imparted adistasteful taint of his profession. "Give me a year of this and I'll opena joint in Frisco! I cleaned out a brace of bull-whackers in the _Plaza_last night--their first pay. Afterward I stung a couple of cattlemen for ahundred each. Look at her hum!"

  Notwithstanding that it was midday, Manti was teeming with life andaction. Since the day that Miss Benham had viewed the town from the windowof the private car, Manti had added more than a hundred buildings to itstotal. They were not attractive; they were ludicrous in their pitifulmasquerade of substantial types. Here and there a three-story structurereared aloft, sheathed with galvanized iron, a garish aristocrat seeminglyconscious of its superiority, brazen, in its bid for attention; moremodest buildings seemed dwarfed, humiliated, squatting sullenly andenviously. There were hotels, rooming-houses, boarding-houses, stores,dwellings, saloons--and others which for many reasons need not bementioned. But they were pulsating with life, electric, eager, expectant.Taking advantage of the scarcity of buildings, an enterprising citizen haderected tents in rows on the street line, for whose shelter he chargedenormously--and did a capacity business.

  "A hundred came in on the last train," complained the over-worked stationagent. "God knows what they all expect to do here!"

  Corrigan had kept his promise to build Judge Lindman a courthouse. It wasa flat-roofed structure, one story high, wedged between a saloon andBraman's bank building. A sign in the front window of Braman's bankannounced that Jefferson Corrigan, agent of the Land & ImprovementCompany, of New York, had office space within, but on the morning of theday following his return to Manti, Corrigan was seated at one side of aflat-top desk in the courthouse, talking with Judge Lindman, who sat atthe other side.

  "Got them all transcribed?" asked Corrigan.

  The Judge drew a thin ledger from his desk and passed it over to Corrigan.As Corrigan turned the pages and his face lighted, the Judge's grewcorrespondingly troubled.

  "All right," exulted Corrigan. "This purports to be an accurate and truerecord of all the land transactions in this section from the special grantto the Midland Company, down to date. It shows no intermediate owners fromthe Midland Company to the present claimants. As a document arraigningcarelessness on the part of land buyers it cannot be excelled. There isn'ta present owner that has a legal leg to stand on!"

  "There is only one weak point in your case," said the Judge, and his eyesgleamed with satisfaction, which he concealed by bowing his head. "It isthat since these records show no sale of its property by the MidlandCompany, the Midland Company can come forward and re-establish itstitle."

  Corrigan laughed and flipped a legal-looking paper in front of the Judge.The latter opened it and read, showing eagerness. He laid it down afterreading, his hands trembling.

  "It shows that the Midland Company--James Marchmont,president--transferred to Jefferson Corrigan, on a date prior to theseother transactions, one-hundred thousand acres of land here--the MidlandCompany's entire holdings. Why, man, it is forgery!"

  "No," said Corrigan quietly. "James Marchmont is alive. He signed his nameright where it is. He'll confirm it, too, for he happens to be insomething of the fix that you are in. Therefore, there being no records ofany sales on your books--as revised, of course--" he laughed; "JeffCorrigan is the legal possessor of one-hundred thousand acres of landright in the heart of what is going to be the boom section of the West!"He chuckled, lit a cigar, leaned back in his chair and looked at theJudge. "All you have to do now is to enter that transaction on yourrecords."

  "You don't expect the present owners to yield their titles without afight, do you?" asked the Judge. He spoke breathlessly.

  Corrigan grunted. "Sure; they'll fight. But they'll lose. I've got them.I've got the power--the courts--the law, behind me. I've got them, andI'll squeeze them. It means a mint of money, man. It will make you. It'sthe biggest thing that any man ever attempted to pull off in thiscountry!"

  "Yes, it's big," groaned the Judge; "it's stupendous! It's frightful! Why,man, if anything goes wrong, it would mean--" He paused and shivered.

  Corrigan smiled contemptuously. "Where's the original record?" he asked.

  "I destroyed it," said the Judge. He did not look at Corrigan. "How?"demanded the latter.

  "Burned it."

  "Good." Corrigan rubbed his palms together. "It's too soon to startanything. Things are booming, and some of these owners will be trying tosell. Hold them off--don't record anything. Give them any excuse thatcomes to your mind. Have you heard from Washington?"

  "The establishment of the court here has been confirmed."

  "Quick work," laughed Corrigan. He got up, murmuring something abouthaving to take care of some leases. When he turned, it was to start andstand rigid, his jaws set, his face pale. A man stood in the opendoorway--a man of about fifty apparently, furtive-eyed, slightly shabby,though with an atmosphere about him that hinted of past dignity ofcarriage.

  "Jim Marchmont!" said Corrigan. He stepped forward, threateningly, hisface dark with wrath. Without speaking another word he seized the newcomerby the coat collar, snapping his head back savagely, and dragged him backof a wooden partition. Concealed there from any of the curious in thestreet, he jammed Marchmont against the wall of the building, held himthere with one hand and stuck a huge fist into his face.

  "What in hell are you doing here?" he demanded. "Come clean, or I'll tearyou apart!"

  The other laughed, but there was no mirth in it, and his thin lips werecurved queerly, and were stiff and white. "Don't get excited, Jeff," hesaid; "it won't be healthy." And Corrigan felt something hard and coldagainst his shirt front. He knew it was a pistol and he released his holdand stepped back.

  "Speaking of coming clean," said Marchmont. "You crossed me. You told meyou were going to sell the Midland land to two big ranch-owners. I findthat you're going to cut it up into lots and make big money--loads of it.You handed me a measly thousand. You stand to make millions. I want mydivvy."

  "You've got your nerve," scoffed Corrigan. "You got your bit when you soldthe Midland before. You're a se
lf-convicted crook, and if you make a peepout here I'll send you over the road for a thousand years!"

  "Another thousand now," said Marchmont: "and ten more when you commence tocash in. Otherwise, a thousand years or not, I'll start yapping here andqueer your game."

  Corrigan's lips were in an ugly pout. For an instant it seemed he wasgoing to defy his visitor. Then without a word to him he stepped aroundthe partition, walked out the door and entered the bank. A few minuteslater he passed a bundle of greenbacks to Marchmont and escorted him tothe front door, where he stood, watching, his face unpleasant, untilMarchmont vanished into one of the saloons.

  "That settles _you_, you damned fool!" he said.

  He stepped down into the street and went into the bank. Braman fawned onhim, smirking insincerely. Corrigan had not apologized for striking theblow, had never mentioned it, continuing his former attitude toward thebanker as though nothing had happened. But Braman had not forgiven him.Corrigan wasted no words:

  "Who's the best gun-man in this section?"

  Braman studied a minute. "Clay Levins," he said, finally.

  "Can you find him?"

  "Why, he's in town today; I saw him not more than fifteen minutes ago,going into the _Elk_!"

  "Find him and bring him here--by the back way," directed Corrigan.

  Braman went out, wondering. A few minutes later he returned, coming in atthe front door, smiling with triumph. Shortly afterward Corrigan wasopening the rear door on a tall, slender man of thirty-five, with a thinface, a mouth that drooped at the corners, and alert, furtive eyes. Hewore a heavy pistol at his right hip, low, the bottom of the holster tiedto the leather chaps, and as Corrigan closed the door he noted that theman's right hand lingered close to the butt of the weapon.

  "That's all right," said Corrigan; "you're perfectly safe here."

  He talked in low tones to the man, so that Braman could not hear. Levinsdeparted shortly afterwards, grinning crookedly, tucking a piece of paperinto a pocket, upon which Corrigan had transcribed something that had beenwritten on the cuff of his shirt sleeve. Corrigan went to his desk andbusied himself with some papers. Over in the courthouse, Judge Lindmantook from a drawer in his desk a thin ledger--a duplicate of the one hehad shown Corrigan--and going to the rear of the room opened the door ofan iron safe and stuck the ledger out of sight under a mass of legalpapers.

  * * * * *

  When Marchmont left Corrigan he went straight to the _Plaza_, where heordered a lunch and ate heartily. After finishing his meal he emerged fromthe saloon and stood near one of the front windows. One of the hundreddollar bills that Corrigan had given him he had "broke" in the _Plaza_,getting bills of small denomination in change, and in his right trousers'pocket was a roll that bulked comfortably in his hand. The feel of it madehim tingle with satisfaction, as, except for the other thousand thatCorrigan had given him some months ago, it was the only money he had hadfor a long time. He knew he should take the next train out of Manti; thathe had done a hazardous thing in baiting Corrigan, but he was lonesome andyearned for the touch and voice of the crowds that thronged in and out ofthe saloons and the stores, and presently he joined them, wandering fromsaloon to saloon, drinking occasionally, his content and satisfactionincreasing in proportion to the quantity of liquor he drank.

  And then, at about three o'clock, in the barroom of the _Plaza_, he hearda discordant voice at his elbow. He saw men crowding, jostling one anotherto get away from the spot where he stood--crouching, pale of face, theireyes on him. It made him feel that he was the center of interest, and hewheeled, staggering a little--for he had drunk much more than he hadintended--to see what had happened. He saw Clay Levins standing close tohim, his thin lips in a cruel curve, his eyes narrowed and glittering, hisbody in a suggestive crouch. The silence that had suddenly descended smoteMarchmont's ears like a momentary deafness, and he looked foolishly aroundhim, uncertain, puzzled. Levins' voice shocked him, sobered him, whitenedhis face:

  "Fork over that coin you lifted from me in the _Elk_, you light-fingeredhound!" said Levins.

  Marchmont divined the truth now. He made his second mistake of the day. Heallowed a flash of rage to trick him into reaching for his pistol. He gotit into his hand and almost out of the pocket before Levins' first bulletstruck him, and before he could draw it entirely out the second savagebark of the gun in Levins' hand shattered the stillness of the room.Soundlessly, his face wreathed in a grin of hideous satire, Marchmont sankto the floor and stretched out on his back.

  Before his body was still, Levins had drawn out the bills that had reposedin his victim's pocket. Crumpling them in his hand he walked to the barand tossed them to the barkeeper.

  "Look at 'em," he directed. "I'm provin' they're mine. Good thing I gotthe numbers on 'em." While the crowd jostled and crushed about him he readthe numbers from the paper Corrigan had given him, grinning coldly as thebarkeeper confirmed them. A deputy sheriff elbowed his way through thepress to Levins' side, and the gun-man spoke to him, lightly: "I reckoneverybody saw him reach for his gun when I told him to fork the coinover," he said, indicating his victim. "So you ain't got nothin' on me.But if you're figgerin' that the coin ain't mine, why I reckon a guy namedCorrigan will back up my play."

  The deputy took him at his word. They found Corrigan at his desk in thebank building.

  "Sure," he said when the deputy had told his story; "I paid Levins themoney this morning. Is it necessary for you to know what for? No? Well, itseems that the pickpocket got just what he deserved." He offered thedeputy a cigar, and the latter went out, satisfied.

  Later, Corrigan looked appraisingly at Levins, who still graced theoffice.

  "That was rather an easy job," he said. "Marchmont was slow with a gun.With a faster man--a man, say--" he appeared to meditate "--like Trevison,for instance. You'd have to be pretty careful--"

  "Trevison's my friend," grinned Levins coldly as he got to his feet."There's nothin' doin' there--understand? Get it out of your brain-box,for if anything happens to 'Firebrand,' I'll perforate you sure as hell!"

  He stalked out of the office, leaving Corrigan looking after him,frowningly.